


All the people like us are We, and everyone else is They

by seekthis



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Punk, Anarchy, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Social Justice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekthis/pseuds/seekthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is piece of the continent, a part of the main - John Donne</p>
<p>Patrick is searching and Jonathan is looking to find, both can seem the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the people like us are We, and everyone else is They

**Author's Note:**

> Aahh, so this happened. Been reading alot of amazing stuff on this fandom for a while now and Noam Chomsky, then somehow my weird mind merged them and this came into fruitation. Its my first fic in this fandom so feedback would be lovely.
> 
> Title comes from Rudyard Kipling's We and They

_A sad soul can kill you quicker than a germ_

_  
_**-John Steinbeck,**   _Travels with Charley_  


 

In the midsts of the darkened rooms, between the sweat soaked pliant bodies falling into each other, Jonathan finds himself. He will never admit it out loud but the whole scene makes him cringe on a good day, the portrayal of being tough falls short when your hurting so good the next morning. Sometimes when he really needs it, he will try to find the angriest face in the crowd, more often than not, it leads way to a hurried fumble in the dark. He will let them push into the barely there bruises. Encouraging it.

*

There is something to be said about being stranded, without a ride on the wrong side of midnight, near some woods that'd make anyone's nerves spike. Patrick is not't a pussy or anything but he'd gladly call himself one if it meant he'd be anywhere but here. He's been walking for some days now trying to find himself somewhere to settle that would not't lead to trouble. Which, now that he thought about it, was some idealistic thinking on his part. Mostly now he'd settle for somewhere solid to sleep before the sun sets on his ass but that looks unlikely as it is. He walks another few miles till the woods are behind him along with the smallest remainder of the day from hell.

He'd though he'd be used to having rough days by now, but that just seems like a luxury for the lucky ones. Its the constant tired feeling he can't shake that leads to pressure building in the base of his neck. Which in turn leads to his irritation making way for anger. Its not that Patrick likes drinking all that much, more the haze of not being in his head. So when he reaches Chicago ,finally, he finds himself in a nice little dive bar. He deserves it really after sitting through listening to some sad sap truck driver talk about how the love of his life ended up running off with his boss. Shit seemed real sad till about the fifth hour. 

It unnerves him a little as he walks downstairs to find the lights dim and all but a lone voice cutting through a crowd with their backs turned to him

"...Look all I'm saying is its all in the intent. We make our intentions clear from the actions of the others. We're not looking to shed blood but if it comes to it, we're not going to back pedal to make them feel safe. They shed it whist the cuffs of their shirts remain clean-"

"Tazer, your preaching to the choir man" Someone says lightly as the man at the front of the crowd turns eyes scanning the group frowning mouth etched heavy with worry. If anything he looks too young to be sounding so serious about whatever the living fuck he's walked into.

"I know, but I'm giving you all an out now before there are no out-"

His eyes fall on Patrick stood on the door way, Shit. Patrick makes a run for it, two stairs at a time up and into the street. A car blares its horn nearly blinding him with its headlights as he runs under a bridge and into the shadow of its looming leg. They emerge darting and fanning in all directions. A tall pale faced man, older then the others but fast if not faster, makes his way across the street and toward Patrick. He's sure that he's not been seen but if he remains he will be caught for sure. He throws his bag on the other side of the fence and follows it swiftly breaking into a run that his lungs haven't had to deal with in a long time. He's seen movies like this, if he looks back he's sure someone will be on his tail, so he keeps running till he finds himself a heaving street of bodies. 

He's lost himself in a crowd enough times that he starts to feel safe, the adrenalin levels drop and his teeth start to clatter. He walks around aimless a couple of hours deeper into the heart of Chicago as the morning's icy fingers starts making its way into his bones before finding a darkened doorway to settle into.

*

Jonathan hears Hossa's heavy gait coming down the stairs before he seems him, eyes low. The last of them to return but probably the most disappointed, he walks around as if he's got a point to prove being in the game so long. Sharpie sits up more alert from where he's half sprawled in a booth one hand on his beer as he makes space for Hossa.

"I doubt the NSA sent some scrawny assed kid, who took one look at little Tazer here and into oncoming traffic, to infiltrate us" He smiles carefully sliding the remainder of his beer in Hossa's direction.

Jonathan would smile too, if he could forget a week back in September he'd had to talk Sharpie out of taking his family and leaving the country because of a parked car outside his house. He'd had to call Cabbie at the station to run the plates off the record to put Sharpie at ease. The corruption at the station is so blatant, its well hidden. As reluctant as he was to go to Cabbie, he was still one of them, he'd always been golden. That is what scares him, if truth be told. Jonathan would do things when the time came, burn the needed bridges and live with it. 

_And perhaps that is what it all came down to tonight. Talking some of them out of it._

Some part of him secretly hopes that the intruder spooked some of them enough for them to call it quits yet here they all are. Hie's thinking back to when Q had sat with him in this very bar a couple years back telling him it all. The lay of the land and its rules. Rules that seemed unjust and cruel. He'd made a promise to tell people about it. That the dream he'd lived in was just that. A dream. Q had understood the freedom that came with the mosh pits but he'd taught him the freedom of what his own mind could do. What is the point of being in the game if your not playing?

"Hey Tazer!" Brandon says patting his shoulder pulling him out of his thoughts 

"Think its time to call it a night" he smiles as they file out calling their goodnights.

*

Patrick is feeling frail to say the least. Its like his body has decided to make friends with December and become its bitch. The rooming house he's staying at can barely be called a house but at least he's not out in the cold. Its been a hard month. This month always is but he's probably not the first to feel this way. Most evenings after a shitty shift at the construction site he likes to go walking round town. Sometimes he's invited round for dinner by his co workers but he always declines, feigns being busy. Busy people watching in the cheapest cafes he can find. Sometimes the days bleed into one another and other times they drag. He decides to leave after Christmas is over, when he can buy himself a decent winter jacket in the sales at the very least and save a little money.

_Leave towards where and what? Nor really sure but not this._ Somewhere warm. Anywhere warm.

He happens on a library on the second Monday of the month. Becoming ill leaves him in a somewhat emotional state, he goes in for old times sake. Remembering when Erica would stack his arms full of books she was too young to read. Perhaps its the warmth or the memory that throws him into a dizzy spell and a coughing fit. 

"Hey..hey-you alright?" A voice comes behind him as Patrick leans forward, hands on his knees trying to find his breath. When he can, he can barely keep from choking on his own spit. He can pin point the moment the guy realize who he is as he looks him over almost prophesying that Patrick is going to run, he grabs his elbow and drags him between the religious studies stacks. 

"L-listening man I heard nothing-" he begins trying to pull his arm free 

"Sit down" The guy says pulling him further into the stacks, whist Patrick looks for his exits. His frown is deeper than the last time he saw him as he looks over Patrick slow and careful. Patrick knows this look. Its a look many of his co-workers's wives give him. He knows how he looks, sure he can count the hot meals he's had in one hand these three months in Chicago, but this look should not't be given by what his made up in his mind to be a) a killer b) a mobster c) cult leader or d) all of the above

He levels Patrick with a glare before asking "Your ill, I have a friend-"

"I know you have friends, and of course I would not be able to identify them in a line up-" Patrick finds himself saying as the guy looks annoyed.

"He runs a clinic uptown-" He carries on eyeing harder at Patrick.

"That I can't afford and would not trust but sure thanks for telling me buddy-" He replies standing up to find colour spots filling his vision because he'd rather take the trouble his body is doing currently over the whole heap this guy is going to bring.

The guy sighs moving out his way with a pointed stare.

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack:  
> Memory games - Bilal Salaam (Sleeping States cover)  
> How to be a werewolf - Mogwai  
> & Then it was you - How to dress well  
> Heaven - The Walkmen  
> Forget It - Blood Orange  
> Silence is easy - Starsalior


End file.
